It's not one of the days when Vivienne has people carry a little table out here and put out little cups and tea and one chair just slightly bigger and sturdier than the other and has the Bull sit with her for a while. Krem probably wishes it was. He's not sure what part bothers Krem more - having to smooth things over with the Chargers when their training sessions start to go like this, or seeing the Bull snapping at his guys so much in the first place.
It isn't that bad. They all already know how to deal with him when his usual high standards and demands turn into something crabby and distracted. They all know how to weather it for a few days while their chief's mood levels out and they don't ask questions, except for Krem who asks with the looks he's been giving when he knows that the Bull sees.
So it's been more than a few days now. So he's been feeling the Iron Bull's friendly face slip at times he doesn't mean it to. He's benched till the healers give this useless shitting ankle the okay and the Chargers all know how that's a pain in the ass, the way that it wears on you. And he knows everything else that's wearing on him, the reasons all this is built up the way it is, and he's going to sit here and ride it out.
And he knows it's not just the Dorian thing that's built it up. Not on its own.
No- call it what it is. Not 'the Dorian thing'. The only way this works is if he doesn't hide from any of it. Having a good, close member of his team turn into a darkspawn for him, or get the blight and die, or whatever ends up happening, those details are pretty new but the losing people part isn't. He knows how that part works, and he can get through it. If he couldn't, couldn't handle losing just one guy, that would be a problem. He's thought about it, decided he isn't that bad yet. It isn't like there wasn't a whole lot of other crap weighing him down at the same time, what with the way it went down, the place his mind went when it did, and the leg and everything. When he sits back enough to think about it, it all mostly makes sense.
Knowing the forecast inside his head doesn't mean that he can tame the storm. It does tell him that he can wait it out. It tells him he's waited these storms out before and tells him he can do it again, nevermind the way his eye keeps focusing past his men and their footwork and their form onto the stairs, the ones Vivienne ordered him off climbing, chastising him for taking the risk. He hadn't bothered to ask how she'd already known he couldn't afford to walk more than down from his bed in the morning and up to it again at night, how even that had made the healer make a face back before his brace was all fixed up. Vivienne had let him stay there for a while, that was all that mattered.
Surprised the shit out of him the next day when she'd had that little table set up near the steps to the great hall, like she was demanding his company, like they both don't know that he puts that submissive part of himself out there for her on purpose, that she takes that bait only because she's decided to do it, like she gets a single thing out of bringing herself down here for hours at a time and making that evening a whole habit, the evening they'd just gotten back and Dorian was swept into more isolation while the Bull climbed all those stupid stairs and sat with her to leech off her unshaking certainty, her strength.
The latest makeshift cane jerks out of his hand and out of reach over onto the crate he should be sitting on and his brace slips on the same powdery snow Rocky's shoes just slipped over and the Bull catches himself against the wall, all his muscles tight and jaw clenched and fingers curled up to reach for his axe and he looks over into his blind spot and sees - who else - the one Charger they'd been missing. Rocky opens his mouth, and the Bull interrupts before he can explain. "Don't bother. I don't give a crap why you're not paying attention."
Rocky gives a couple slow nods, eyeing him, and turns to take his place near Krem. "Hey!" the Bull snaps, before Rocky can even take two steps. "Get back here."
Rocky stops, turns with his eyebrows raised. He opens his mouth and, on the look on the Bull's face, goes ahead and closes his mouth again.
The Bull jerks his head, gesturing with a horn away from the field. "The rest of us aren't a high enough priority to get you here on time, you don't get to get in their way. And go get some better shoes, for shit's sake, you put those on and try to fight on snow and the next thing you skid into's not going to be some damned cane. Get out of here."
Krem shouts for the rest of them to focus, forcing their attention away from Rocky and the Bull and the Bull looks away too, looking over the courtyard without really thinking about any part of it, straightening up slowly and carefully and trying not to really think about that either. He knows. He knows, and the Chargers know, and Rocky knows, and they're all just going to ride it out. Except Dorian, maybe. There's only so much riding it out that you can do when you're living on borrowed time.
Edited (was thinking of slightly better hooks for this) 2021-05-10 20:08 (UTC)
Evelyn had reassured him the Bull was healing, of course, that the man was mostly intact. The injuries the Bull sustained after the fall would take some time to heal, which meant allowing the Bull to rest and recuperate in Skyhold. Somehow, though, Dorian had the feeling that "rest and recuperate" for the Bull didn't mean lying supine in bed with his leg propped up, staying off his feet as much as necessary.
And sure enough, there are the Chargers practicing on the training grounds, going through forms or sparring or wrestling in the mud or whatever it is they do – and there stands the Bull.
Stubborn oaf of a man, Dorian thinks; he doesn't realize how fond the words sound in his own head. Damned fool. It hasn't been that long since they all returned from the Storm Coast. Dorian may not consider himself a healer – he lacked the appropriate temperament for it – but he's almost certain the Bull ought to be sitting.
The Bull seems to scan the courtyard without seeing him, which is likely just as well – Dorian has to force the look of disapproval from his face with a slow breath; instead, he schools his expression into something lightly amused. To one side, Rocky storms past him – too distracted to notice Dorian's presence, as well. Odd, Dorian thinks, though perhaps not too odd; the two of them were mere acquaintances at best, and Rocky certainly seemed agitated enough to not notice a bear until it was mere inches from him.
Dorian approaches the Chargers, sweeping over the scene. The Chargers are busy with their training, of course, and the Bull is standing to one side, apparently ignoring the presence of the crate and cane sitting blithely to one side. He wonders, briefly, if he's merely imagining the strange tension in the air.
The Bull must certainly be distracted, Dorian thinks as he scoops up the cane from its place atop the crate. He tests its weight in both hands.
"Rocky seems in quite a state," Dorian says, in lieu of a more conventional greeting.
"Yeah," the Bull murmurs, sounding distracted. For all the time he's already had to take in the fact that it's Dorian walking up to him and what that might mean, it's distracting just looking at him and his eye moves over Dorian quickly, looking for the slightest thing that might be off. Or for signs that Dorian's healthy, but it's weird to think about it that way after so long of - he realises now, feeling himself trying to break out of it - expecting to hear anything about Dorian except good news.
"If he's really pissed off Krem'll let him bitch about me later, I'll buy him a couple drinks, he'll get over it. Hey, so." He shouldn't have to ask, it should be clear already, but something in him needs to hear it. "They finally let you back into the world, huh?"
Not, he guesses, that he's not going to chicken out of asking Dorian so are you going to die or not outright. He got close enough. Sometimes with Dorian you don't have to ask outright, you just have to ask a little and let him keep talking and he'll get there himself and it's weird to think that, like Dorian's going to be around long enough that the Bull's going to have to remember techniques for dealing with him. It feels like opening up a locked box you already tucked away in the dark before it's even had time to start getting dusty. This isn't like a teammate getting bed-bound for a while or even going into surgery, it sits in his head different, and he can't take his gaze off Dorian.
He can. He could. But Dorian is in front of him and the last time the Bull saw him Dorian was a number, the latest of many, a calculation about how much the boss might slip when she started grieving and here he is, whole and alive in front of him, he doesn't need to look away just yet. He wants to see the look on Dorian's face when Dorian answers, one way or the other, and it's okay if that's more than a little obvious.
Dorian lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, resting the base of the cane on the ground, piercing through the thin layer of snow.
"In all fairness to the Inquisitor, sequestering myself in my quarters was my idea." His tone of voice is light, conversational. "The Blight can be a fickle thing, you know. It's fully possible that one may not exhibit symptoms of the sickness for some time. Hours, for some. Days, for others. Better to isolate myself to be completely certain – and the lack of distractions allowed me to better focus on recreating my old notes from when Alexius and I treated Felix."
He holds the handle of the cane toward the Bull, looking a little pointedly at the Bull's brace. The brace, at least, is in a much better state than the last time Dorian saw the other man, though Dorian has some doubts as to whether or not the Bull has allowed his ankle to heal along with it.
"You ought to be sitting, you know."
Without waiting to see if the Bull takes the less than subtle hint, however, Dorian continues.
"Evelyn invited herself to this morning's meeting with the healer, and afterward, I was practically ordered to make my presence known throughout the keep," he says lightly. "Skyhold has been sorry, miserable place without my chiseled profile to brighten it, I've been told, and I have little reason to disbelieve it."
He pauses for a moment, lips pressed together and brow furrowing before he forces himself to brighten.
At length, he says, "The contact with the blood was brief, and it didn't find its way into any open wounds. Everyone seems rather confident that I should be fine."
"But not you," the Bull says, thoughtful, still not looking away. That's not the kind of definitive answer that would have been cause to celebrate, but it's weirdly easier to take. More in line with the way he had been thinking, takes less work to really take in. Not the good news he'd been trying to open himself to, not the bad news that's been sitting in his head since the whole thing happened. Still keeps Dorian in that same category, though. Dead man walking. Maybe, anyway. Maybe not.
The Bull grabs the cane and tilts his head, looking at the side of Dorian's face that the blood hit. The Bull hadn't even seen it. He'd seen the back of Dorian instead, arms spread out, and then saw him ushered away to the closest healer, and that had been it. He'd seen the blood the darkspawn left on the lift behind it, but he hadn't seen the blood that mattered.
He leans on the cane about as much as he trusts it to hold him, leans on his bad foot enough to take a step, doesn't hurry to put his weight on the other one instead but just lets his jaw tighten, lets his breath out slow, lets it hurt while he leans on that side just enough to study the part of Dorian's face that took the hit.
"With the angle, the blood probably sprayed you at..." He raises his right hand to trace a line in the air down from Dorian's temple to his jaw and the angle's awkward but he doesn't resist moving his hand closer, bumping the backs of his knuckles here and there like accidents against Dorian's skin. Most people outside Par Vollen are weird about touching, like you can't want it just to have it, like you want it cause you want to fuck. The Bull has a lot of fun with that, usually. Gives touching a new dimension, a new power it didn't always have back home. On any normal day, he'd like that just fine.
If the conversation works around to something a little less tense and on-edge - maybe some of that's him, he'll try to keep his eye on it - maybe he'll be able to get away with throwing an arm around Dorian's shoulder. "Hard to say, but it wouldn't be weird if it all missed your eyes, your nose, that whole area. You have a reason you're not as confident as everyone else, or are you just being cautious?"
Dorian lets out a quiet, rueful laugh, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. His lips part to offer an answer, but when the Bull shifts closer, he immediately goes still, a little wary. The Bull traces a path down the side of Dorian's head, knuckles brushing against his hair, the shell of his ear, the hinge of his jaw. The touches are light, incidental, but it's still the distorted echo of something approaching intimate. Dorian goes rigid, furtively glancing around to ensure no one is paying them any undue attention.
It's only a blink later that he realizes how patently ridiculous he's being, that the Bull surely means nothing amorous by this, and that the only attention anyone might be paying him would be to ensure he wasn't about to explode with demons.
"You really ought to be sitting," is what he manages for now, batting the Bull's hand away. His gaze is stern when he takes in the small details – the way the Bull is leaning on his bad leg, the tightness of the other man's jaw and at the corner of his eye.
Dorian freezing and his eyes darting around like that does a lot more than batting his hand away to get the Bull to back off. He drops his hand, nods, shifts his weight in that slow and careful way he's starting to hate having to do and takes the two or three steps away from Dorian that he needs to get to the crate. Looking down at it as he lowers himself down is a good excuse to make himself stop staring so that's what he does, then stretches his leg out just enough to roll his foot. He does it slowly, the tense set of his jaw not loosening until he finishes a few rotations, and lets the pain narrow his focus.
No throwing his arm around Dorian's shoulder after all. Okay. This isn't about him. He can see and hear Dorian just fine, anyway.
His free hand loosens on the edge of the crate, and he looks up. "You planning on answering my question?" he asks, mildly. "Or is that off the table right now?"
He says that part mildly, too. No sarcasm, not pointed or anything. He just wants to know. He doesn't know if he's going to push or not, if that whole topic actually is off limits. Maybe not. Might not be in the right headspace to do it right anyway, he thinks, pressing his fingers into the meat of his 'good' leg and watching them dig in behind his knee. Shouldn't have touched Dorian like that. Too intimate, doesn't matter that wasn't the kind of intimate he was thinking about. He knows how Dorian gets about that crap, and the last thing Dorian needs right now is something else to get stressed out about. Leave it. Finding out where Dorian's head is at matters a whole lot more.
Dorian follows the Bull with his gaze, watching his movements carefully. He closes the space between them while the Bull moves toward the crate, ready to— well, it seems silly to be ready to catch him. Dorian may not be weak, but he doubts very much he'll be able to physically catch the Bull, should he fall.
His worries are unfounded, thankfully, as the Bull manages to settle himself without toppling, and, satisfied, Dorian moves to stand beside him, turning to face the Chargers as they work. He crosses his arms over his chest.
He's explained his concerns to Evelyn, of course, but she was only too happy to brush his worries aside. The healers have cleared him, and in the time between the Storm Coast and today, he's shown absolutely no signs of sickness. "You're being paranoid, Dorian," she was far too eager to say. "You'll be fine."
And Dorian, already feeling badly for having worried her for so long, had relented.
It's— different with the Bull. He's a practical man, Dorian knows. He's a strategist, for all that he acts like a buffoon. Like Dorian, he likes having the information at hand.
Dorian sighs sharply, arms crossing over his chest. "If you must know—"
He hesitates for a moment, gathering his words. Then, "If you must know, during my research with Alexius, we gathered a great deal of information on victims of Blight-sickness. Many who were infected developed symptoms not long after exposure. Some took hours to show signs, and others took only a few days. In either case, it didn't take much time at all for the infection to take hold."
He taps a finger against his bicep, shifting his weight to one hip as he thinks.
"But..." He trails off, sighing again with frustration. "Blight-sickness is unpredictable. How it affects me would be different from how it would affect you, which would be different than how it would affect Cremisius. After this long, chances are good that I'll be fine, but there's always that rare chance that..."
Ah. Maybe he does sound paranoid.
He shakes his head. "If after another week my condition hasn't changed, I'll feel more confident."
The Bull listens, watches but doesn't stare. Dorian following him so closely, not keeping that personal space the Bull sitting down would have given him, that means he didn't mess up too badly with the touching thing but he doesn't want to push it. All this will start feeling more normal, more natural, if he just waits; being able to touch and stare and take Dorian in would have been a shortcut, but he doesn't need a shortcut more than Dorian needs the right kind of company right now.
"Going to be a long week," he says, rubbing at the back of his knee one more time and then setting his hand on his thigh. His tone is neutral, not implying anything about Dorian's judgement one way or the other, because telling Dorian he's overreacting doesn't occur to him. It might not have occurred to him - at least, not right away - even if it had been what Dorian needed to hear. Not right now. That's not where his mind's at, and getting Dorian talking about it is what the Bull's focusing on. He leans forward over his knees, puts too much weight on that one foot and lifts it up, then sets it carefully back on the snow. "Least you don't have to spend it with nothing else to do but obsess over the whole thing, shut away from everyone. But you said this part wasn't your idea was it, being out here. I guess you were prepared for another week cooped up in- where, your room, right?"
"Quite," he replies, though he sounds more tired than curt. It's at least a bit of a relief that the Bull didn't try to reassure him, didn't try to convince him that he was worrying over nothing.
He lets out another breath, shaking his head. "After the healer declared I wasn't contagious, if I was ever contagious to begin with, my first choice had been to make myself useful in the library. The Inquisitor, in her infinite wisdom, declared I needed fresh air, at least for the next day or two. Before that, though, yes – I'd been in my quarters. The Inquisitor had been kind enough to bring me some of my work."
He glances over, watches as the Bull shifts his weight, trying to get comfortable on an injured ankle. Dorian's eyebrows knit together briefly, and in a voice a little softer than he intends, "How are you faring?"
The Bull puts aside what he's seeing between the lines of Dorian's answer - Dorian spending all that time sitting there alone pulling up memory after memory of a good friend getting sicker and sicker, nothing to lift that weight off his shoulders except dredging up more of those old notes, more memories, knowing all the time that if it does come down to it he can't count on anyone else to know what to do, can't lean on anybody for this, it's only down to him - and gives an answer of his own, one that comes out sounding a lot more easy and casual than Dorian's did. That softness that crept into Dorian's voice right on the heels of the Bull's thoughts makes that easier, makes 'casual' edge over into 'dismissive', and he shrugs.
"Ah, I'll be fine, if the guys don't get tired of me bitching at 'em from the sidelines and throw me over a wall first. Bet you could use a break just as much as me, though. You up for a drink or something? Kind of early for it, but that's the only thing there is to do down here, so."
He leans the head of the cane in the general direction of the Herald's Rest. Yeah, being trapped in only the one level of Skyhold this whole time's been a real pain in the ass, but aside from that frustrated tone in the Bull's voice, who's complaining?
Fine, he says, while forcing the ankle to take his not inconsiderable weight.
Still, Dorian isn't entirely sure it's his place to nag – that particular privilege is likely only within the purview of the Chargers, or perhaps Madame de Fer – and so he doesn't. Dorian holds his tongue for once, though his doubt shines through in the narrowing of his eyes, the furrowing of his brow.
He follows the Bull's gesture to the Herald's Rest, and while it is too early for a drink, he supposes they can manage some lighter fare. It's likely early enough that breakfast can still be had.
"Are you sure your Chargers won't miss you?" he asks, but Dorian is already moving over to the Bull's bad side, offering the other man a hand up.
The hint of a grimace crosses the Bull's face as he looks at the hand Dorian's offering, but he's not so off about the leg thing yet that he's going to start being shitty to people for no reason, especially someone who's going through too much shit himself already. So he wraps his hand around Dorian's palm and wrist, tries to put most of his weight on himself and on the cane, and doesn't let himself think for more than an instant about the contact, acknowledging how he feels about it and then, once he's up, letting Dorian's hand go.
"Hey, Krem!" the Bull calls to him. "You guys going to miss me if I head out?"
"Like a hernia!" Krem calls back, and something in the barks of scattered laughter that gets from the other Chargers keeps the Bull from really smiling at the backtalk like he might have wanted to. Some of the laughing sounded louder, sharper than it should be, the kind of sound people make more because there's too much tension they've got to let out than because anything's really that funny, and that kind of sucks the fun out of it.
Yeah. They all need a break, too. The Bull's mouth moves into enough of a grin to acknowledge Krem's joke and then he nods a goodbye, starts heading toward the tavern. It isn't far but he's slow now, so slow, and every step's an exercise in frustration. Or patience. Same difference.
"So," he says, talking while he moves so he doesn't have to think about it. "How much of a distraction you think you're up for? Marie and a couple others are keeping me up to date on the on-the-ground gossip, Vivienne's filling me in about the noble stuff, the guests and everything.
"Or, hey," he adds, as it occurs to him that the Iron Bull would probably at least imply, here, "I got other stuff you can think about all you want." He flexes his bicep extra hard when he leans on the cane and gets the pec on that side flexing along with it, and doing it makes his little grin from a few seconds ago come back, looking more real this time.
That's good. Probably not enough to make Dorian really go tense, not like touching him, and it's fun besides. He hasn't had enough dumb crap in him lately, and it feels almost good to dredge a little bit of it up again. "All you have to do is say the word."
Dorian is hardly surprised by the Bull's speed – or lack thereof. Stubborn man that the Bull is, Dorian would wager that the other man hasn't looked after himself as well as he should; the fact that he was out here instead of resting in his chambers was more than evidence enough. He keeps pace with the Bull, nevertheless, putting on an air of ease and confidence that's practically second nature.
I'm not going this slow for you, his demeanor seems to say. You're going this slow for me.
He's happy to let the Bull ramble – a diversion to draw attention away from the Bull's pace, perhaps, or something to keep the Bull's mind from the pain? But when the other man seems to interrupt himself with a sudden stroke of inspiration, Dorian glances over and sees the way the Bull flexes.
... Admittedly, it's impressive.
But Dorian rolls his eyes, nevertheless, heaving out an aggravated groan.
"Maker, spare me from your displays," he says. "It's far too early in the day for this."
The Bull chuckles and keeps on walking. It's weird, kind of, that specific type of consideration he's seeing out of Dorian and Vivienne both where they use the whole holier than thou thing as a cover for whatever the Bull needs done and no one has to point out just why he needs it, or make a big deal out of it, or make him have to put on this extra-happy face just to get them back on an even keel. It's not the kind of thing anyone but nobility would be able to really pull off, and the whole Qunari mercenary thing means the nobility he usually ends up dealing with is only really going to treat him in a few pretty specific ways. So Dorian's whole manner right now is new, still, to the Bull. It might not technically be that much of an effort, just this attitude in the way Dorian walks, but it's nice. Very Dorian, that kind of attention to that kind of detail. In line, probably, with the kind of personality that would jump barefaced in front of a darkspawn without even defending himself just so the useless asshole behind him might have a hope of staying safe.
The thought comes to him with this compressed little package of familiar emotion, and he puts it away. There's always time to shine a light on that shit later, when he's by himself. For now he thinks about how hard Dorian would laugh if the Bull out and out went and called him nice, how many little cracks about it Dorian would have to make afterward just to prove that he wasn't. Maybe if the Bull doesn't use the word.
"Hey, you make a good escort," he says, not needing to look at the door to know it's just a few more arm-lengths away. If he didn't know by now exactly how many steps it takes to get there, he'd have to hand in his ben-hassrath card. "You know one of the Chargers actually smacked herself in the face with the door trying to open it for me? Another one tripped over these - you know how some of the ladies here to see Josephine bring their pets? There was this like, herd of little nugs, and they're not quiet, should have spotted them in his sleep. I had to spend the next hour sweet talking her to smooth it over, you know how those highborn types get." There's a little humour in the Bull's face as he finishes up with that, something pointed - you know, Dorian, like you - and something fond - except, not really like you at all - that hints at all that stuff Dorian would complain about, if the Bull said it out loud.
Dorian snorts at the mental image – first, of someone giving themselves a black eye with the edge of the door, and second, of a herd of nugs scurrying underfoot.
He reaches the door first, opening it without doing himself any bodily harm, and holds it for the Bull to pass through first.
It's a testament, probably, to the time they've spent together that Dorian gets the vague impression of those underlying comments. You know how those highborn types get, the Bull says, because Dorian's spent most of his life among those "highborn types." But evidently the Bull doesn't count Dorian among them, considering he quite pointedly did not say you highborn types.
It's probably meant as a compliment, Dorian thinks. Or, at the very least it's not meant to be an insult. The Bull may be a subtle man when the fancy strikes, but when he wants to poke fun at Dorian, he rarely resorts to anything so understated.
"I'll have you know, I wouldn't be caught dead with a pet nug," he says, putting on just the right amount of haughty. Easier to address the obvious than dive into the deeper meaning of the Bull's words, at least for now. His expression wrinkles as he affects a shudder. "Those creepy little feet. Absolutely horrific."
"Come on Dorian, you judge everybody by their feet?" the Bull asks, moving past him and into the tavern. Usually he'd go straight back to his spot, because when you're Qunari sized and find the one chair that doesn't feel like it's going to break apart if you so much as fart the wrong way, you stick to it like it's attached - but then he'd have to get back up again to get drinks, bring them back, and right now that's a whole thing, so he might as well just head toward Cabot, Cabot's long table, and its tiny, shitty little stools.
That's what happens when you get a dwarf to run the bar, he thinks, then decides that if one shitty comment in the privacy of his own head is as far as his frustration's going to go then he might just be able to give Dorian the kind of distraction he needs today without coming off like too much of an asshole, shitty little stools or not. He can just lean against the counter or drag a crate in front of his chair or something, it doesn't have to be a big deal.
"People have other qualities you know," he goes on, making his way toward the counter and leaning just enough of his weight on it to look like he's at ease. "You've got to work on that, learn to look past the feet. So, what are you thirsty for? They been giving you anything good to drink up there?"
Dorian snorts at that, more dismissive than anything, and while he starts moving toward the Chargers' usual haunt, expecting the Bull would prefer to sit somewhere comfortably, the other man surprises him by moving toward the bar.
He hesitates for a second, but follows the Bull's lead.
"Evelyn offered a bottle or two of wine, pilfered from the good stocks," he answers easily enough. "A secret that I share with you in strict confidence. The Inquisitor didn't bother asking Lady Montilyet for permission, you see."
He may have even had a glass or two, just for a bit of stress relief, but the wine remains largely untouched. Most of his days and nights were spent focused on recreating his work, wishing dearly that he had had time enough while fleeing his father's estate to pack his research with Alexius. He remembered a good deal of it, of course – Alexius had praised him highly for his excellent recall – but it would have been reassuring to have something. Just that little reminder that he was working in the right direction.
The Bull leans against the counter, and he looks convincingly unperturbed. Still, Dorian glances first at he closest stools, then at the nearest chairs, before frowning.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer your usual seat?"
He shrugs, deliberately patient. One of the Chargers might put up with the attitude he kind of wants to answer the question with - mostly because they don't have that much of a choice - but Dorian might not, and besides that, Dorian hasn't had a whole lot of time to get used to seeing the Bull like this yet. This is the first time they've seen each other since the Deep Roads, so a part of Dorian's mind is going to be coming straight from all that shit to here. The Bull can be a little patient for that, even if people trying to get all helpful and accommodating grates worse and worse the more time the Bull spends thinking about whether the damn thing's actually going to heal.
This is more about Dorian than him, though. Dorian needs a distraction from his own shit. That helps.
"Cabot's not going to have a lot of help until later when it gets busy. You want to find out how he feels about making personal deliveries all over the place, though, you go right ahead." And then, because patience or not, turning the conversation to Dorian instead of him puts the Bull a little more at ease: "You hit your head back in the Deep Roads, right? How's that holding up? The healers able to take care of it?"
For a moment, Dorian does, in fact, nearly offer to bring the Bull his drinks.
(Which would be at least a little funny, he thinks. He can practically hear his ancestors screeching at him from beyond the Veil at the impropriety of it all.)
But the Bull changes topics on him, and reflexively, Dorian touches his temple. The bruising is not quite as vivid, these days; in the days immediately after leaving the Deep Roads, it had been a little unsightly. There's absolutely little to be thankful for in his situation, but a small part of him is glad his vanity was spared, at least for a little while.
"A few draughts of elfroot potion saw to the worst of it." He flashes the other man a wan smile. "It'll take far more than a little bump to the head to finish me off, I think."
"Yeah," the Bull says with an amused noise, because there's nothing else to do with what's behind that little statement - Dorian, the one expert, not being convinced that he's clear of the taint just yet, the way the waiting isn't over - but to ignore it. Maybe they're going to find out just what it takes to finish Dorian off soon, and maybe they're not. Now's not the time to bring it up. "I was thinking it might be something serious when we were down there, but I should have known you're tougher than that."
"Hey," interrupts Cabot, finished with the soldier a few stools down and now leaning against the table in front of them. His eyes flicker over Dorian; he's definitely at least heard a couple rumours. You wouldn't know it from his voice, though, brusque and abrupt as ever, and the little look and the pause doesn't last longer than an instant before it's business as usual. "You guys just here to take up space, or you gonna order something?"
Edited (forgot to say, if this doesn't work let me know and I can edit) 2021-05-17 18:59 (UTC)
"Actually, I thought I might provide your bar with a much needed centerpiece." Dorian's answer is thoughtless, instinctive, as is the dazzling smile he bestows upon Cabot. The way he leans forward against the bar top is practically calculated, his cheek cupped by his palm, with his elbow resting on the worn, stained wood. "Something to draw the bleary-eyed gazes of your patrons. I'm a far better focal point than some dreary middle distance, wouldn't you agree?"
Cabot, unsurprisingly, is altogether unmoved by the display – somehow, in fact, he seems even more indifferent.
Undeterred, Dorian chuckles softly and flicks the fingers of his free hand. "Fine. If the Bull will forgive my forwardness, I'll take the liberty of ordering us two bowls of stew, and two tankards of your least objectionable, least watery ale."
Cabot grunts out his response, accustomed to Dorian's verbal slights, and moves away from the bar into his small kitchen. When he does, Dorian straightens, the breezy manner falling away.
"What a refreshing change of pace," Dorian says, almost addressing the room at large, even if the words are meant only for the Bull; his tone is light, at odds with his expression – which is a little solemn, a little thoughtful. "Between Evelyn and the healer, I'd been feeling quite coddled since we returned to Skyhold."
Yeah, well, she's been worried about you, the Bull doesn't say. Dorian already knows, and doesn't need to hear it. He needs to hear the edge that would sneak in to the Bull's voice if he did say it even less, that misplaced, twisted up feeling at being the reason Dorian's going through this without being able to even talk to him, while Dorian sits there with nothing but the worst, shittiest memories of his old friend Felix to keep him company while he pushes through it on his own. At least the boss got to be worried.
Not Dorian's fault, the Bull reminds himself, taking a second to stare down at the counter and take a breath. Dorian had to be isolated for a while, and of course the boss is the only one who got to see him while he was. That's just how things shook out. It is what it is. And it's over now anyway, Dorian's here and talking to him. Time to let it go.
"Yeah, people like the coddling thing," he says instead, from personal experience, and tries to use the movement of turning to face Dorian as an excuse to shift more of his weight onto his right leg. He's not supposed to do that a whole lot - be pretty shitty if he messed up the only good one he's got putting too much of his weight on it too often - but his mind's going in enough different directions right now without that constant, low-level bullshit his ankle's sending out making it even easier for him to get crabby, and leaning any harder on the cane than he already is would make that need to lean way too obvious. "Makes them feel better about shit.
"Think sending you out here means she's done feeling guilty, though? Or you think she's just gearing up for something else? You did say she kept you from holing up in the library, right, made you come out here for fresh air."
Dorian lets out an affected sigh, shaking his head. "Maker save me from the Herald's good intentions."
He turns a little, then, casting an absent look at the Bull as the other man shifts his weight – or, at the very least, a layman might characterize it as an absent look. A more observant person would take it for what it is: an attempt to drawn in as many details as possible without seeming too obvious.
Only a complete idiot would fail to realize that the Bull absolutely shouldn't be standing on his still-healing leg, but by Dorian's estimation, it's less a matter of forcing the Bull into following good sense and more a matter of calculating how long to allow the charade to continue.
A few minutes more, is what he decides. Perhaps once their orders of hearty, rustic stew and tepid ale have arrived, Dorian can convince the Bull to adjourn to one of the tables.
"More realistically," Dorian says, once his decision is made, "Evelyn is all too happy to put this nasty business behind us. She's a remarkable person, but she doesn't have much of a stomach for the thought of any member of her inner circle passing. Better to assume I've come away unscathed than..."
He pauses before airily waving a hand.
"Than the alternative, of course. Such an idealist, that woman. For someone who murders as many people as she does, she really has no tolerance for talks of death."
"Easier when you don't know 'em," the Bull points out, eyeing Dorian. The way Dorian's looking at him promises something irritating in his future, Dorian seeing too much and maybe deciding to do something about it. That's what he gets for having smart friends, he guesses. At least he can tell it might be coming so he can brace himself.
And hey, maybe if Dorian does decide to start fussing or something, it'll give him something else to think about. Doesn't seem like he's had a lot of that. Might be good for Dorian, at least, even if the Bull by this point just wants everyone to pretend his shitting leg doesn't exist until the whole problem goes away, one way or the other.
He leans a little bit more on the long counter table, focuses on breathing for a second, wants a drink. Something in the here and now to focus on, hold it in his hands and think about the way it tastes instead of running through the other times he got that same injury in the same spot, running through the stupid shit he did back then and what he could have done for Dorian if the joint and the ligaments and all the tiny little bones in there had been just a little bit stronger and how it'd felt when it was healing and how it feels now and always building all these comparisons in the back of his head like the same old crap's going to up and start telling him something new out of nowhere.
He wants to kick something's ass, he wants to fuck, he needs something that'll take him out of his head so he has more focus to spare for Dorian, who really needs the companionship right now. He'll go off and do some deep breathing or something later. For now he'll just do what he can, try for some topic that might give Dorian something to complain about. Shouldn't be that hard, and Dorian always seems a little bit happier when he's complaining.
"And when it's someone you faced down some of the really tough crap with-" He goes on, shrugging. "Not everyone's used to that. Still, if she's acting like everything's fine she's got to let you back up into the library soon, right?" Where the Bull won't be able to follow him. But that's tomorrow's problem. "You'll be able to go back to research, see if all those books up there have anything good inside 'em."
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It isn't that bad. They all already know how to deal with him when his usual high standards and demands turn into something crabby and distracted. They all know how to weather it for a few days while their chief's mood levels out and they don't ask questions, except for Krem who asks with the looks he's been giving when he knows that the Bull sees.
So it's been more than a few days now. So he's been feeling the Iron Bull's friendly face slip at times he doesn't mean it to. He's benched till the healers give this useless shitting ankle the okay and the Chargers all know how that's a pain in the ass, the way that it wears on you. And he knows everything else that's wearing on him, the reasons all this is built up the way it is, and he's going to sit here and ride it out.
And he knows it's not just the Dorian thing that's built it up. Not on its own.
No- call it what it is. Not 'the Dorian thing'. The only way this works is if he doesn't hide from any of it. Having a good, close member of his team turn into a darkspawn for him, or get the blight and die, or whatever ends up happening, those details are pretty new but the losing people part isn't. He knows how that part works, and he can get through it. If he couldn't, couldn't handle losing just one guy, that would be a problem. He's thought about it, decided he isn't that bad yet. It isn't like there wasn't a whole lot of other crap weighing him down at the same time, what with the way it went down, the place his mind went when it did, and the leg and everything. When he sits back enough to think about it, it all mostly makes sense.
Knowing the forecast inside his head doesn't mean that he can tame the storm. It does tell him that he can wait it out. It tells him he's waited these storms out before and tells him he can do it again, nevermind the way his eye keeps focusing past his men and their footwork and their form onto the stairs, the ones Vivienne ordered him off climbing, chastising him for taking the risk. He hadn't bothered to ask how she'd already known he couldn't afford to walk more than down from his bed in the morning and up to it again at night, how even that had made the healer make a face back before his brace was all fixed up. Vivienne had let him stay there for a while, that was all that mattered.
Surprised the shit out of him the next day when she'd had that little table set up near the steps to the great hall, like she was demanding his company, like they both don't know that he puts that submissive part of himself out there for her on purpose, that she takes that bait only because she's decided to do it, like she gets a single thing out of bringing herself down here for hours at a time and making that evening a whole habit, the evening they'd just gotten back and Dorian was swept into more isolation while the Bull climbed all those stupid stairs and sat with her to leech off her unshaking certainty, her strength.
The latest makeshift cane jerks out of his hand and out of reach over onto the crate he should be sitting on and his brace slips on the same powdery snow Rocky's shoes just slipped over and the Bull catches himself against the wall, all his muscles tight and jaw clenched and fingers curled up to reach for his axe and he looks over into his blind spot and sees - who else - the one Charger they'd been missing. Rocky opens his mouth, and the Bull interrupts before he can explain. "Don't bother. I don't give a crap why you're not paying attention."
Rocky gives a couple slow nods, eyeing him, and turns to take his place near Krem. "Hey!" the Bull snaps, before Rocky can even take two steps. "Get back here."
Rocky stops, turns with his eyebrows raised. He opens his mouth and, on the look on the Bull's face, goes ahead and closes his mouth again.
The Bull jerks his head, gesturing with a horn away from the field. "The rest of us aren't a high enough priority to get you here on time, you don't get to get in their way. And go get some better shoes, for shit's sake, you put those on and try to fight on snow and the next thing you skid into's not going to be some damned cane. Get out of here."
Krem shouts for the rest of them to focus, forcing their attention away from Rocky and the Bull and the Bull looks away too, looking over the courtyard without really thinking about any part of it, straightening up slowly and carefully and trying not to really think about that either. He knows. He knows, and the Chargers know, and Rocky knows, and they're all just going to ride it out. Except Dorian, maybe. There's only so much riding it out that you can do when you're living on borrowed time.
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And sure enough, there are the Chargers practicing on the training grounds, going through forms or sparring or wrestling in the mud or whatever it is they do – and there stands the Bull.
Stubborn oaf of a man, Dorian thinks; he doesn't realize how fond the words sound in his own head. Damned fool. It hasn't been that long since they all returned from the Storm Coast. Dorian may not consider himself a healer – he lacked the appropriate temperament for it – but he's almost certain the Bull ought to be sitting.
The Bull seems to scan the courtyard without seeing him, which is likely just as well – Dorian has to force the look of disapproval from his face with a slow breath; instead, he schools his expression into something lightly amused. To one side, Rocky storms past him – too distracted to notice Dorian's presence, as well. Odd, Dorian thinks, though perhaps not too odd; the two of them were mere acquaintances at best, and Rocky certainly seemed agitated enough to not notice a bear until it was mere inches from him.
Dorian approaches the Chargers, sweeping over the scene. The Chargers are busy with their training, of course, and the Bull is standing to one side, apparently ignoring the presence of the crate and cane sitting blithely to one side. He wonders, briefly, if he's merely imagining the strange tension in the air.
The Bull must certainly be distracted, Dorian thinks as he scoops up the cane from its place atop the crate. He tests its weight in both hands.
"Rocky seems in quite a state," Dorian says, in lieu of a more conventional greeting.
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"If he's really pissed off Krem'll let him bitch about me later, I'll buy him a couple drinks, he'll get over it. Hey, so." He shouldn't have to ask, it should be clear already, but something in him needs to hear it. "They finally let you back into the world, huh?"
Not, he guesses, that he's not going to chicken out of asking Dorian so are you going to die or not outright. He got close enough. Sometimes with Dorian you don't have to ask outright, you just have to ask a little and let him keep talking and he'll get there himself and it's weird to think that, like Dorian's going to be around long enough that the Bull's going to have to remember techniques for dealing with him. It feels like opening up a locked box you already tucked away in the dark before it's even had time to start getting dusty. This isn't like a teammate getting bed-bound for a while or even going into surgery, it sits in his head different, and he can't take his gaze off Dorian.
He can. He could. But Dorian is in front of him and the last time the Bull saw him Dorian was a number, the latest of many, a calculation about how much the boss might slip when she started grieving and here he is, whole and alive in front of him, he doesn't need to look away just yet. He wants to see the look on Dorian's face when Dorian answers, one way or the other, and it's okay if that's more than a little obvious.
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"In all fairness to the Inquisitor, sequestering myself in my quarters was my idea." His tone of voice is light, conversational. "The Blight can be a fickle thing, you know. It's fully possible that one may not exhibit symptoms of the sickness for some time. Hours, for some. Days, for others. Better to isolate myself to be completely certain – and the lack of distractions allowed me to better focus on recreating my old notes from when Alexius and I treated Felix."
He holds the handle of the cane toward the Bull, looking a little pointedly at the Bull's brace. The brace, at least, is in a much better state than the last time Dorian saw the other man, though Dorian has some doubts as to whether or not the Bull has allowed his ankle to heal along with it.
"You ought to be sitting, you know."
Without waiting to see if the Bull takes the less than subtle hint, however, Dorian continues.
"Evelyn invited herself to this morning's meeting with the healer, and afterward, I was practically ordered to make my presence known throughout the keep," he says lightly. "Skyhold has been sorry, miserable place without my chiseled profile to brighten it, I've been told, and I have little reason to disbelieve it."
He pauses for a moment, lips pressed together and brow furrowing before he forces himself to brighten.
At length, he says, "The contact with the blood was brief, and it didn't find its way into any open wounds. Everyone seems rather confident that I should be fine."
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The Bull grabs the cane and tilts his head, looking at the side of Dorian's face that the blood hit. The Bull hadn't even seen it. He'd seen the back of Dorian instead, arms spread out, and then saw him ushered away to the closest healer, and that had been it. He'd seen the blood the darkspawn left on the lift behind it, but he hadn't seen the blood that mattered.
He leans on the cane about as much as he trusts it to hold him, leans on his bad foot enough to take a step, doesn't hurry to put his weight on the other one instead but just lets his jaw tighten, lets his breath out slow, lets it hurt while he leans on that side just enough to study the part of Dorian's face that took the hit.
"With the angle, the blood probably sprayed you at..." He raises his right hand to trace a line in the air down from Dorian's temple to his jaw and the angle's awkward but he doesn't resist moving his hand closer, bumping the backs of his knuckles here and there like accidents against Dorian's skin. Most people outside Par Vollen are weird about touching, like you can't want it just to have it, like you want it cause you want to fuck. The Bull has a lot of fun with that, usually. Gives touching a new dimension, a new power it didn't always have back home. On any normal day, he'd like that just fine.
If the conversation works around to something a little less tense and on-edge - maybe some of that's him, he'll try to keep his eye on it - maybe he'll be able to get away with throwing an arm around Dorian's shoulder. "Hard to say, but it wouldn't be weird if it all missed your eyes, your nose, that whole area. You have a reason you're not as confident as everyone else, or are you just being cautious?"
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Dorian lets out a quiet, rueful laugh, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. His lips part to offer an answer, but when the Bull shifts closer, he immediately goes still, a little wary. The Bull traces a path down the side of Dorian's head, knuckles brushing against his hair, the shell of his ear, the hinge of his jaw. The touches are light, incidental, but it's still the distorted echo of something approaching intimate. Dorian goes rigid, furtively glancing around to ensure no one is paying them any undue attention.
It's only a blink later that he realizes how patently ridiculous he's being, that the Bull surely means nothing amorous by this, and that the only attention anyone might be paying him would be to ensure he wasn't about to explode with demons.
"You really ought to be sitting," is what he manages for now, batting the Bull's hand away. His gaze is stern when he takes in the small details – the way the Bull is leaning on his bad leg, the tightness of the other man's jaw and at the corner of his eye.
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No throwing his arm around Dorian's shoulder after all. Okay. This isn't about him. He can see and hear Dorian just fine, anyway.
His free hand loosens on the edge of the crate, and he looks up. "You planning on answering my question?" he asks, mildly. "Or is that off the table right now?"
He says that part mildly, too. No sarcasm, not pointed or anything. He just wants to know. He doesn't know if he's going to push or not, if that whole topic actually is off limits. Maybe not. Might not be in the right headspace to do it right anyway, he thinks, pressing his fingers into the meat of his 'good' leg and watching them dig in behind his knee. Shouldn't have touched Dorian like that. Too intimate, doesn't matter that wasn't the kind of intimate he was thinking about. He knows how Dorian gets about that crap, and the last thing Dorian needs right now is something else to get stressed out about. Leave it. Finding out where Dorian's head is at matters a whole lot more.
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His worries are unfounded, thankfully, as the Bull manages to settle himself without toppling, and, satisfied, Dorian moves to stand beside him, turning to face the Chargers as they work. He crosses his arms over his chest.
He's explained his concerns to Evelyn, of course, but she was only too happy to brush his worries aside. The healers have cleared him, and in the time between the Storm Coast and today, he's shown absolutely no signs of sickness. "You're being paranoid, Dorian," she was far too eager to say. "You'll be fine."
And Dorian, already feeling badly for having worried her for so long, had relented.
It's— different with the Bull. He's a practical man, Dorian knows. He's a strategist, for all that he acts like a buffoon. Like Dorian, he likes having the information at hand.
Dorian sighs sharply, arms crossing over his chest. "If you must know—"
He hesitates for a moment, gathering his words. Then, "If you must know, during my research with Alexius, we gathered a great deal of information on victims of Blight-sickness. Many who were infected developed symptoms not long after exposure. Some took hours to show signs, and others took only a few days. In either case, it didn't take much time at all for the infection to take hold."
He taps a finger against his bicep, shifting his weight to one hip as he thinks.
"But..." He trails off, sighing again with frustration. "Blight-sickness is unpredictable. How it affects me would be different from how it would affect you, which would be different than how it would affect Cremisius. After this long, chances are good that I'll be fine, but there's always that rare chance that..."
Ah. Maybe he does sound paranoid.
He shakes his head. "If after another week my condition hasn't changed, I'll feel more confident."
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"Going to be a long week," he says, rubbing at the back of his knee one more time and then setting his hand on his thigh. His tone is neutral, not implying anything about Dorian's judgement one way or the other, because telling Dorian he's overreacting doesn't occur to him. It might not have occurred to him - at least, not right away - even if it had been what Dorian needed to hear. Not right now. That's not where his mind's at, and getting Dorian talking about it is what the Bull's focusing on. He leans forward over his knees, puts too much weight on that one foot and lifts it up, then sets it carefully back on the snow. "Least you don't have to spend it with nothing else to do but obsess over the whole thing, shut away from everyone. But you said this part wasn't your idea was it, being out here. I guess you were prepared for another week cooped up in- where, your room, right?"
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He lets out another breath, shaking his head. "After the healer declared I wasn't contagious, if I was ever contagious to begin with, my first choice had been to make myself useful in the library. The Inquisitor, in her infinite wisdom, declared I needed fresh air, at least for the next day or two. Before that, though, yes – I'd been in my quarters. The Inquisitor had been kind enough to bring me some of my work."
He glances over, watches as the Bull shifts his weight, trying to get comfortable on an injured ankle. Dorian's eyebrows knit together briefly, and in a voice a little softer than he intends, "How are you faring?"
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"Ah, I'll be fine, if the guys don't get tired of me bitching at 'em from the sidelines and throw me over a wall first. Bet you could use a break just as much as me, though. You up for a drink or something? Kind of early for it, but that's the only thing there is to do down here, so."
He leans the head of the cane in the general direction of the Herald's Rest. Yeah, being trapped in only the one level of Skyhold this whole time's been a real pain in the ass, but aside from that frustrated tone in the Bull's voice, who's complaining?
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Still, Dorian isn't entirely sure it's his place to nag – that particular privilege is likely only within the purview of the Chargers, or perhaps Madame de Fer – and so he doesn't. Dorian holds his tongue for once, though his doubt shines through in the narrowing of his eyes, the furrowing of his brow.
He follows the Bull's gesture to the Herald's Rest, and while it is too early for a drink, he supposes they can manage some lighter fare. It's likely early enough that breakfast can still be had.
"Are you sure your Chargers won't miss you?" he asks, but Dorian is already moving over to the Bull's bad side, offering the other man a hand up.
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"Hey, Krem!" the Bull calls to him. "You guys going to miss me if I head out?"
"Like a hernia!" Krem calls back, and something in the barks of scattered laughter that gets from the other Chargers keeps the Bull from really smiling at the backtalk like he might have wanted to. Some of the laughing sounded louder, sharper than it should be, the kind of sound people make more because there's too much tension they've got to let out than because anything's really that funny, and that kind of sucks the fun out of it.
Yeah. They all need a break, too. The Bull's mouth moves into enough of a grin to acknowledge Krem's joke and then he nods a goodbye, starts heading toward the tavern. It isn't far but he's slow now, so slow, and every step's an exercise in frustration. Or patience. Same difference.
"So," he says, talking while he moves so he doesn't have to think about it. "How much of a distraction you think you're up for? Marie and a couple others are keeping me up to date on the on-the-ground gossip, Vivienne's filling me in about the noble stuff, the guests and everything.
"Or, hey," he adds, as it occurs to him that the Iron Bull would probably at least imply, here, "I got other stuff you can think about all you want." He flexes his bicep extra hard when he leans on the cane and gets the pec on that side flexing along with it, and doing it makes his little grin from a few seconds ago come back, looking more real this time.
That's good. Probably not enough to make Dorian really go tense, not like touching him, and it's fun besides. He hasn't had enough dumb crap in him lately, and it feels almost good to dredge a little bit of it up again. "All you have to do is say the word."
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I'm not going this slow for you, his demeanor seems to say. You're going this slow for me.
He's happy to let the Bull ramble – a diversion to draw attention away from the Bull's pace, perhaps, or something to keep the Bull's mind from the pain? But when the other man seems to interrupt himself with a sudden stroke of inspiration, Dorian glances over and sees the way the Bull flexes.
... Admittedly, it's impressive.
But Dorian rolls his eyes, nevertheless, heaving out an aggravated groan.
"Maker, spare me from your displays," he says. "It's far too early in the day for this."
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The thought comes to him with this compressed little package of familiar emotion, and he puts it away. There's always time to shine a light on that shit later, when he's by himself. For now he thinks about how hard Dorian would laugh if the Bull out and out went and called him nice, how many little cracks about it Dorian would have to make afterward just to prove that he wasn't. Maybe if the Bull doesn't use the word.
"Hey, you make a good escort," he says, not needing to look at the door to know it's just a few more arm-lengths away. If he didn't know by now exactly how many steps it takes to get there, he'd have to hand in his ben-hassrath card. "You know one of the Chargers actually smacked herself in the face with the door trying to open it for me? Another one tripped over these - you know how some of the ladies here to see Josephine bring their pets? There was this like, herd of little nugs, and they're not quiet, should have spotted them in his sleep. I had to spend the next hour sweet talking her to smooth it over, you know how those highborn types get." There's a little humour in the Bull's face as he finishes up with that, something pointed - you know, Dorian, like you - and something fond - except, not really like you at all - that hints at all that stuff Dorian would complain about, if the Bull said it out loud.
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He reaches the door first, opening it without doing himself any bodily harm, and holds it for the Bull to pass through first.
It's a testament, probably, to the time they've spent together that Dorian gets the vague impression of those underlying comments. You know how those highborn types get, the Bull says, because Dorian's spent most of his life among those "highborn types." But evidently the Bull doesn't count Dorian among them, considering he quite pointedly did not say you highborn types.
It's probably meant as a compliment, Dorian thinks. Or, at the very least it's not meant to be an insult. The Bull may be a subtle man when the fancy strikes, but when he wants to poke fun at Dorian, he rarely resorts to anything so understated.
"I'll have you know, I wouldn't be caught dead with a pet nug," he says, putting on just the right amount of haughty. Easier to address the obvious than dive into the deeper meaning of the Bull's words, at least for now. His expression wrinkles as he affects a shudder. "Those creepy little feet. Absolutely horrific."
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That's what happens when you get a dwarf to run the bar, he thinks, then decides that if one shitty comment in the privacy of his own head is as far as his frustration's going to go then he might just be able to give Dorian the kind of distraction he needs today without coming off like too much of an asshole, shitty little stools or not. He can just lean against the counter or drag a crate in front of his chair or something, it doesn't have to be a big deal.
"People have other qualities you know," he goes on, making his way toward the counter and leaning just enough of his weight on it to look like he's at ease. "You've got to work on that, learn to look past the feet. So, what are you thirsty for? They been giving you anything good to drink up there?"
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He hesitates for a second, but follows the Bull's lead.
"Evelyn offered a bottle or two of wine, pilfered from the good stocks," he answers easily enough. "A secret that I share with you in strict confidence. The Inquisitor didn't bother asking Lady Montilyet for permission, you see."
He may have even had a glass or two, just for a bit of stress relief, but the wine remains largely untouched. Most of his days and nights were spent focused on recreating his work, wishing dearly that he had had time enough while fleeing his father's estate to pack his research with Alexius. He remembered a good deal of it, of course – Alexius had praised him highly for his excellent recall – but it would have been reassuring to have something. Just that little reminder that he was working in the right direction.
The Bull leans against the counter, and he looks convincingly unperturbed. Still, Dorian glances first at he closest stools, then at the nearest chairs, before frowning.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer your usual seat?"
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This is more about Dorian than him, though. Dorian needs a distraction from his own shit. That helps.
"Cabot's not going to have a lot of help until later when it gets busy. You want to find out how he feels about making personal deliveries all over the place, though, you go right ahead." And then, because patience or not, turning the conversation to Dorian instead of him puts the Bull a little more at ease: "You hit your head back in the Deep Roads, right? How's that holding up? The healers able to take care of it?"
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(Which would be at least a little funny, he thinks. He can practically hear his ancestors screeching at him from beyond the Veil at the impropriety of it all.)
But the Bull changes topics on him, and reflexively, Dorian touches his temple. The bruising is not quite as vivid, these days; in the days immediately after leaving the Deep Roads, it had been a little unsightly. There's absolutely little to be thankful for in his situation, but a small part of him is glad his vanity was spared, at least for a little while.
"A few draughts of elfroot potion saw to the worst of it." He flashes the other man a wan smile. "It'll take far more than a little bump to the head to finish me off, I think."
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"Hey," interrupts Cabot, finished with the soldier a few stools down and now leaning against the table in front of them. His eyes flicker over Dorian; he's definitely at least heard a couple rumours. You wouldn't know it from his voice, though, brusque and abrupt as ever, and the little look and the pause doesn't last longer than an instant before it's business as usual. "You guys just here to take up space, or you gonna order something?"
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Cabot, unsurprisingly, is altogether unmoved by the display – somehow, in fact, he seems even more indifferent.
Undeterred, Dorian chuckles softly and flicks the fingers of his free hand. "Fine. If the Bull will forgive my forwardness, I'll take the liberty of ordering us two bowls of stew, and two tankards of your least objectionable, least watery ale."
Cabot grunts out his response, accustomed to Dorian's verbal slights, and moves away from the bar into his small kitchen. When he does, Dorian straightens, the breezy manner falling away.
"What a refreshing change of pace," Dorian says, almost addressing the room at large, even if the words are meant only for the Bull; his tone is light, at odds with his expression – which is a little solemn, a little thoughtful. "Between Evelyn and the healer, I'd been feeling quite coddled since we returned to Skyhold."
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Not Dorian's fault, the Bull reminds himself, taking a second to stare down at the counter and take a breath. Dorian had to be isolated for a while, and of course the boss is the only one who got to see him while he was. That's just how things shook out. It is what it is. And it's over now anyway, Dorian's here and talking to him. Time to let it go.
"Yeah, people like the coddling thing," he says instead, from personal experience, and tries to use the movement of turning to face Dorian as an excuse to shift more of his weight onto his right leg. He's not supposed to do that a whole lot - be pretty shitty if he messed up the only good one he's got putting too much of his weight on it too often - but his mind's going in enough different directions right now without that constant, low-level bullshit his ankle's sending out making it even easier for him to get crabby, and leaning any harder on the cane than he already is would make that need to lean way too obvious. "Makes them feel better about shit.
"Think sending you out here means she's done feeling guilty, though? Or you think she's just gearing up for something else? You did say she kept you from holing up in the library, right, made you come out here for fresh air."
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He turns a little, then, casting an absent look at the Bull as the other man shifts his weight – or, at the very least, a layman might characterize it as an absent look. A more observant person would take it for what it is: an attempt to drawn in as many details as possible without seeming too obvious.
Only a complete idiot would fail to realize that the Bull absolutely shouldn't be standing on his still-healing leg, but by Dorian's estimation, it's less a matter of forcing the Bull into following good sense and more a matter of calculating how long to allow the charade to continue.
A few minutes more, is what he decides. Perhaps once their orders of hearty, rustic stew and tepid ale have arrived, Dorian can convince the Bull to adjourn to one of the tables.
"More realistically," Dorian says, once his decision is made, "Evelyn is all too happy to put this nasty business behind us. She's a remarkable person, but she doesn't have much of a stomach for the thought of any member of her inner circle passing. Better to assume I've come away unscathed than..."
He pauses before airily waving a hand.
"Than the alternative, of course. Such an idealist, that woman. For someone who murders as many people as she does, she really has no tolerance for talks of death."
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And hey, maybe if Dorian does decide to start fussing or something, it'll give him something else to think about. Doesn't seem like he's had a lot of that. Might be good for Dorian, at least, even if the Bull by this point just wants everyone to pretend his shitting leg doesn't exist until the whole problem goes away, one way or the other.
He leans a little bit more on the long counter table, focuses on breathing for a second, wants a drink. Something in the here and now to focus on, hold it in his hands and think about the way it tastes instead of running through the other times he got that same injury in the same spot, running through the stupid shit he did back then and what he could have done for Dorian if the joint and the ligaments and all the tiny little bones in there had been just a little bit stronger and how it'd felt when it was healing and how it feels now and always building all these comparisons in the back of his head like the same old crap's going to up and start telling him something new out of nowhere.
He wants to kick something's ass, he wants to fuck, he needs something that'll take him out of his head so he has more focus to spare for Dorian, who really needs the companionship right now. He'll go off and do some deep breathing or something later. For now he'll just do what he can, try for some topic that might give Dorian something to complain about. Shouldn't be that hard, and Dorian always seems a little bit happier when he's complaining.
"And when it's someone you faced down some of the really tough crap with-" He goes on, shrugging. "Not everyone's used to that. Still, if she's acting like everything's fine she's got to let you back up into the library soon, right?" Where the Bull won't be able to follow him. But that's tomorrow's problem. "You'll be able to go back to research, see if all those books up there have anything good inside 'em."
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